


The Fellowship of the Sphere

by DrunkenColaBottle



Category: Men's Football RPF, National Football League RPF, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Family Friendly, Football, Football | Soccer, Magic, No Romance, Parody, Planet Earth - Freeform, don't get your hopes up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrunkenColaBottle/pseuds/DrunkenColaBottle
Summary: Didier Deschamps 50th birthday is just around the bent and everyone in Bayonne is very excited about it. But wait! Who’s that!? A cloaked figure approaches the small hobbit town and with him he brings more than the small hobbits might have bargained for.An epic adventure, filled with magic, mentions of dragons, dangerous plots and footballs galore…! Are you ready to partake on a most dangerous journey along with a ragtag team of wizards, elves, dwarves, hobbits, and men? Are you ready to challenge the odds, to sacrifice all for the betterment of the world? Are you ready to face your darkest fears, even if it means changing who you are forever? If ‘yes’ is your answer, then we gladly welcome you to take a seat, and drink some wine, at the illustrious Blue Dragon Inn. You might very well regret your decision!(This is basically the football version of LotR. Yes, it’s dumb. What, the tagline didn’t tip you off?)





	The Fellowship of the Sphere

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Hello! Some information before we start! I had kinda decided not to upload anything here until the entire work in question was finished, but in this case I feel I should make an exception. I don’t have a lot of time to write, and when I do I write slowly – but we’re already in November and I feel I should upload at least the first chapter during 2018 (you know… the actual year of the World Cup) so I’m putting it up anyway. The story is roughly outlined, so I thiiiink I know how many chapters I need, but that miiiiight change later on since, as I said, the story isn’t actually written yet. There are also a few points to take note of:  
>    
>  • There will be no romance in this. I’m personally not a big fan of shipping real people (even in stories were they’re clearly not themselves) and so there will be none of that. Obviously others can do whatever they want, but it’s just not my cup of tea.  
>    
>  • Their characterizations are based on a number of different factors (because demanding I be consistent and only pick one is asking too much, I think) such as playstyle and things they’ve said in interviews, as well as personal interpretation. This is then mixed with traits pertaining to whatever species they are, e.g. hobbits like food and comfort, elves are a little full of themselves etc. They’re all quite exaggerated, though, so (disclaimer) I don’t think any of them would actually act like this were they in… this… situation… Not that we’ll ever know, because it’s all very much ridiculous. – What I’m trying to say is that this is not at all serious and that I mean no offence with it; it’s all just for fun. That being said, I don’t think there’s going to be anything actually offensive in it; it’s mostly just silly.  
>    
>  • If I make someone a villain, it’s not because I actually think they’re bad people – the story just needs villains.  
>    
>  • This story is based mostly on the 2018 World Cup, but there are certain parts that might better relate to the 2016 Euro Cup… because I already “wrote” (okay, I outlined it and wrote a few lines of dialogue) a story back then that I never finished that I’ve sooooomewhat incorporated into this. How’bout dat. There’s also a bunch of stuff that isn’t based on anything. Completely unfounded. Wow.  
>    
>  • The settings are not the same as their real-life counterparts. Only their geographical location and name are the same, really. Mostly. I don’t go into details a lot of the time, so just… it doesn’t matter. If I say something’s there, it’s there. If I don’t, it still might be.  
>    
>  • The story will never live up to the tagline as far as excitement is concerned. Sorry.  
>    
>  • I don’t have a beta-reader, so if you see a typo I totally put it there on purpose and it’s definitely an artistic choice of mine not to know how to spell.  
>    
>  • Tags will update as I go along… but I’ll try not to spoil through them – there’s nothing messed up happening in this story anyway, so unless you really hate mild cursing, I don’t think you’ll have a problem (possibly mentions of blood… there will be battles later on after all, but no in-depth descriptions of gore either way).  
>    
>  • The title is really just the working title. I have no idea what to call this other than stupid.  
>    
>  • There might be more points, but hey; I think you get the gist of it.  
> 

* * *

 

 

When M. Didier Deschamps of Cul-de-Champ announced that he would shortly be celebrating his fiftieth birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Bayonne.

Deschamps was very rich and very well-liked, and had been ever since that one time he helped defeat a dragon by kicking an excellently curved ball right past its netted belly-scales into the top corner of its beastly heart. It had startled the thing so much that it flew right off and never bothered anyone ever again. Allegedly. Either way, he was a man to be reckoned with in the small hobbit town and everyone, young and old, knew who he was.

Didier Deschamps had an adopted nephew (of sorts), called Antoine Griezmann, who was expected to inherit all of Deschamps fortunes in the not so distant future, when the older man moved away to live with the elves of Madrid. He had spoken of it for so many years that the hobbits of Bayonne had started to doubt his conviction, but now it was apparently to happen at long last – once his grand birthday celebration had finally been concluded.

‘I’ve always liked the elves,’ he explained one evening to Antoine as they together packed the few things he would be taking with him. Trinkets, mementos, things he’d inherited long ago and had barely thought of until this very moment; they were all going into one big knapsack that was laying unfolded in the middle of the living room table. ‘I have been penning the great rulers of Madrid for several years now, and they have bid me welcome many times. I would have, in theory, preferred to have stayed in the luscious forests of Paris, but I don’t get along very well with their Queen since the dragon incident. Because of the wine business, of course, although I don’t think I can rightfully be faulted for that. I was very thirsty.’

‘I know,’ said Antoine simply. He’d heard the tale before, although the details sometimes varied. He smiled to his uncle (of sorts) as to not seem too dismissive, but at heart he really just wanted to get back to his room and to his Xbox, which had probably turned itself off by now. The thought irked him; he hadn’t saved in hours.

‘I don’t want to forget anything; I don’t suppose I will return once I’m gone. Part of me will miss it here, but my heart longs for new sceneries. I know that if I do return things here will always be the same, and that’s a comfort in a way, but were it not so I might not leave at all. The days are floating together in this place, I don’t think I can stand it much longer.’ Deschamps went on. Antoine only nodded and yawned. They had much to prepare and time was running short, but Deschamps had insisted on packing first. The party, he said, would sort itself in the end, which Antoine suspected might very well be true; every other hobbit in Bayonne were far more invested than the to-be-celebrated hobbit, and so even if he did nothing to arrange for their activities, others surely would. Antoine surely would, at least, and this thought as well weighed heavily upon him. Although not quite as heavily as his save files.

Already he knew that the coming few weeks were to be tumultuous for him, but to what extent Antoine never could have envisioned.

 

The days passed and the preparations for the feast all went well enough, with only a few minor hiccups, and soon the day drew near. It was on the eve of Deschamps’ birthday that a strange figure could be seen sitting atop a rackety old wagon heading towards Bayonne. He had a wide brimmed hat resting on his head and long bright yellow robes wrapped around his lithe figure. This was not his first visit to Bayonne, but many years had passed since last he had looked upon its green fields and billowing landscape. Like many others, he had come for the feast, and had been heartily invited to do so.

It was for this reason that Deschamps, unlike everyone else in the small town when seeing the stranger, was not at all surprised to see the robed man standing outside his house, leaning on an old wooden staff. In fact; he was most delighted.

‘Ah! You came!’ called Deschamps and embraced him. The stranger smiled a most radiant smile, as was his nature, and allowed Deschamps to show him inside. His travels had been long and strenuous, and it was a welcomed rest for his weary feet when finally he sat down beside the kitchen fireplace, a steaming cup of coffee placed in front of him. ‘How is Fabien?’ asked Deschamps. ‘I fear I haven’t seen in him years, and I heard he couldn’t make it?’

‘He was well, last I saw him. I have not seen him since the inauguration, but I heard he was on a spiritual journey in the far East. It could be simple hearsay,’ said the stranger.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him. But I’m glad you made it, at least. The party will be much merrier for it,’ said Deschamps.

They spoke for a bit, the warm glow of the fire and the hot beverages pooling comfortably in their stomachs lending to a comfortable atmosphere. Half an hour had almost passed before Antoine even noticed the visitor in their home. He’d been in his room all day, sniping n00bs, and only at around 5PM did his growling stomach manage to convince him to leave the comfort of his, for him, oversized bean bag in the search for something to sate his aggravated tummy.

As such it was a complete surprise to him to find Deschamps sitting around the kitchen table together with the brightly clad individual that before that day he had never seen before. Even Deschamps seemed surprised by the meeting, having been so enthralled by their conversation that all else had escaped his mind.

‘We have guests?’ asked Antoine, looking around to see if there were any more hiding about. It wouldn’t have been the first time. His uncle (of sorts) stood up, waving him over and gesturing towards the stranger.

‘Only the one,’ he said, ‘Antoine, allow me to introduce Hugo Lloris. He is the apprentice of one of my dear friends – or was, at least, until very recently. He is here for the festivities.’

‘Oh,’ said Antoine.

‘Lloris, this here is my nephew, of sorts, Antoine Griezmann,’ continued Deschamps. ‘I am sure the two of you will get along fabulously.’

‘It is a pleasure,’ said Lloris.

‘Likewise,’ said Antoine.

A silence fell upon them. It was not uncomfortable at first, but became so as it stretched on. Antoine did not consider himself to be bad with people, the contrary really, but something about this stranger had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge. He didn’t look particularly odd, he did not think; in fact he had a very kindly look to him. But something was off. Maybe it was the incessant use of yellow in his attire, or maybe it was the look on his face that made it seem as though he was expecting Antoine to say something. Something particular. Something… confirmatory. He wasn’t sure why the feeling came over him, but as Lloris kept smiling he couldn’t help but feel that maybe he was right to feel that way. Encouraged, even.

‘He is a wizard,’ blurted Deschamps eventually, an obvious attempt to break the quiet. ‘Lloris the Yellow, they call him. His mentor helped me in defeating that dragon twenty years ago. It was quite the affair – tell me, Hugo, did Fabien ever tell you the details of how we escaped those singeing flames? He played quite the role in that whole debacle, let me tell you. I am sure we would have never gotten out of there alive if not for him.’

‘He did tell me, yes. Many times.’

The look that fell upon his face told Antoine all he needed to know: they were in the same boat regarding that dragon story. For pity’s sake he ought to have somehow tried to spare him another inevitable retelling of it, but he was hungry and in a sudden, and very urgent, need to leave the premise. Not only because of the imminent dragon tale drifting ever nearer, but also because this wizard was giving him funny feelings.

‘I think I’ll head out to the Blue Dragon and see if they need any help moving the wine,’ said Antoine as he nicked some cake from the kitchen table.

‘Oh, that’s very kind of you,’ said Deschamps.

‘Yeah, sure. Anyway, you two have fun. It was nice meeting you.’

He quickly gave their visitor a little wave and hurried off towards the exit before Deschamps would have any chance to start up the tale of his past adventures again. Lloris did not look offended, at least, if a little taken aback.

 

As soon as Antoine had left, the silence from before returned. His arrival had brought them out of their little bubble, and while Deschamps felt mildly stunted where he sat, Lloris instead felt secretly grateful.

‘I did not come here solely to attend a party, M. Deschamps,’ he said after another minute.

Deschamps looked up. The look of surprise on his face was not entirely sincere. ‘You have other business in Bayonne?’ he asked, but the response was slow to come. Lloris sat silent, staring thoughtfully into his coffee. Some wizards, Deschamps knew, could see the future in such things. Coffee grind, or tea leaves, or other similar secretions. He had never heard of Fabien holding such power, but perhaps his apprentice had taken up teachings from others as well.

‘It has resurfaced,’ said Lloris. The cup still held his attention. ‘At long last, finally the trophy has been spotted in Madrid. It is a delicate situation, to say the least. I was hoping I’d find aid in you.’

There it was, then. Deschamps had felt it off of him as soon as he had arrived but had insisted on not being the one to breach the subject. It was most likely not on purpose, merely a biproduct of his own intent, but being imposed upon like that was not something Deschamps thought too highly of. The influence of wizards lost most of its thrall once you were made aware of it.

‘Ah,’ said Deschamps, a small bit frustrated. A few years ago the idea of another adventure would have brought him immeasurable joy. Now it was tiring. ‘So you’re aware of my moving there? To Madrid?’ he asked. ‘Obviously you realize my involvement in, what? Some sort of coup? Will jeopardize my chances of leading a peaceful existence among the elves. I do not see any benefit in it for me to assist you in this. My adventuring days are over, all the same.’

Lloris nodded. Despite the words there was a hopeful smile playing on features.

‘We’ll need to use discretion. If all goes well, the elves will know nothing of your part in it,’ he said.

But Deschamps was not impressed by that. ‘And if it doesn’t?’ he countered. ‘No, I’m much too old for this. Find someone else.’

At once the smile slipped away from the wizard’s face and left instead a forlorn expression in its wake. ‘I know no-one else.’

‘Of course you do. That-that- what’s his name? The big guy, handsome, highly intelligent,’ Deschamps tried, but Lloris quickly shook his head.

‘Hardly an ideal candidate, I would say. Your kind is known for their delicate nature, M. Deschamps. In fact, I need someone small enough to infiltrate the Royal Palace of Madrid,’ said the wizard.

‘There are plenty of hobbits around, find someone else.’

‘This is a matter of international importance.’

‘Then look internationally. I’m _not_ doing it.’

Lloris hung his head and deflated in his chair. He could pout all he wanted, Deschamps thought; his days of sneaking through ventilation shafts were over. The finality of the realization stung, but in no way could he make it untrue.

 

Meanwhile, Bayonne’s breezy summer warmth welcomed Antoine outside. The thought of sneaking back to his room through the backdoor had left him as soon as it had arrived and he instead began on the winding road through the town, making his way towards the Blue Dragon Inn as he had said. There wasn’t actually any need for him to check on things, but perhaps a walk and some fresh air would do him good. Perhaps a glass of wine, as well.

Two of his closest friends worked at the Blue Dragon, and so Antoine found himself spending quite a bit of time at the place despite his normally _crowded_ schedule. They hadn’t grown up together, in any sense, but they had found one another all the same and enjoyed the company they made. Kylian Mbappé was the youngest of their trio and perhaps because of that also the most energetic. His parents ran the Blue Dragon and he had worked there almost since he was a small child. N’Golo Kanté was closer to Antoine’s age but far more demure. He didn’t speak much, but he was always there to lend a hand and that was enough as far as the others were concerned.

The inn itself was a beautiful building, he thought. Nearly as beautiful as Cul-de-Champ and even more spacious. The roof had a pleasant deep blue colour and just beneath it, right next to the entry way, hung a wooden sign in the same shade. As all hobbit doors, this one as well was round with a knob sticking out right in the middle. This one, unlike many of the others, was much larger however, and bright red where it sat nestled within a well-kept white doorframe. On the outside grew roses in large wooden barrels and by them stood small tables and chairs for those interested in enjoying the beautiful summer’s day. The path leading up to the inn was one of fine gravel, with a short step up towards the paved tiles of the outdoor seating lining its way. Many hanging plants, most of them in bloom, hung picturesquely from holders fastened against the façade of the building, as well as various thin wooden pillars and arches strewn across the premise. The smell of freshly baked bread permeated the air, as it always did, and again Antoine felt his stomach rumble. He had eaten his piece of cake on the way, but it evidently had not been enough. He craved more.

‘Kyky!’ he called as he entered the inn. Fortunately, his yelling only seemed to disturb a very few of the present patrons, and they all quickly returned to silently sipping their wine and carrot soup.

Up front, just by the entrance of the inn, there was a long counter with tall barstools that Antoine readily plopped himself down on. There was no one behind the bar, but he could hear muffled sounds coming from the kitchen behind. He called again and this time the door behind the counter flew open. Kylian grimaced at him, folding his arms over a soapy apron. If he’d been put on dish duty, he had probably done something to deserve it. This was a pretty common occurrence.

‘What do you want?’ he asked. A rag by the polished wooden surface found its way into his hand and he absently began drying them without easing his frown from Antoine.

‘What’s today’s special? I’m hungry,’ said Antoine and patted his stomach for emphasis.

Kylian scoffed at him. ‘I’m not serving you, get your own food,’ he said and threw the rag towards him. It didn’t reach, and instead flopped down on the counter with a dull sound.

‘I’m a customer!’ argued Antoine, but Kylian was quick to shake his head and wag a warning finger at him.

‘No,’ he said, ‘customers _pay_ for their food.’

‘I didn’t bring a wallet,’ said Antoine.

Kylian let out a frustrated groan and threw his hands up. He then rounded the corner of the counter, attempted, and failed, to whack Antoine on the back of the head, and then sat off deeper into the inn to see to the other patrons without another word.

‘Kyky!’ called Antoine after him, but received no indication that he had been heard. His stomach growled and he rubbed it again, this time in utter devastation.

The devastation didn’t last long. Soon the delicious aroma of toasted bread wafted closer to his expectant nostrils, hovering through the kitchen door, to land in front of him resting atop a simple white platter. Freshly baked, it lay there invitingly; a thick layer of golden butter spread over its soft, fluffy, interior. By its side, a small cup of dark chocolate sauce glistened in the light of the candlelit inn. Soon, a tall glass of orange juice joined the plate in front of him, and sang to him in slow citrussy chants. The face of heaven looked down upon him, through an imagined window in the ceiling, and whispered sweet nothings of the glorious future ahead, of a stomach filled with food and drink, and of a heart light with merriment.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Antoine with glee, ‘Thank you, N’Golo! I was starving!’

‘Of course. It’s no problem,’ said N’Golo gently and smiled a wide but timid smile. He swayed a little where he stood, looking as though he was going to say something more, but then ultimately stayed silent as Antoine began digging into his meal. He could have gone for a bigger serving, but as an appetizer it was divine. Sometimes, he thought, it was the simple things in life that were the most enjoyable.

Another groan, this time louder and far more irritated, sounded behind him – but he paid it little mind and kept on eating.

‘Why is he- _N’Golo_! What the hell is this!’

Kylian had stormed back, waving exaggeratedly at the food in front of Antoine. ‘He is going to bleed us dry! We’ll go bankrupt! Look at him, he doesn’t even care!’ he gurgled, or some such. It was true, though; Antoine was far to busy appreciating the beautiful existence of bread to feed into Kylian’s silly antics.

‘He was hungry,’ N’Golo defended himself half-heartedly, but that was apparently not good enough.

‘Let him starve! I’ve only slept four hours because of him and his stupid party! The delivery from Bilbao came so early it nearly killed me!’ Kylian whined but then apparently took note of his own statement and sat himself down wearily.

‘It’s not my party, it’s Didi’s,’ Antoine supplied helpfully and earned himself a whack that actually hit this time. He rubbed at his head gingerly. ‘Do you need any help, then? Arranging things, or moving them? I’m free for the evening.’

‘ _How generous of you_.’

‘You could unpack with us, if you want,’ said N’Golo.

Antoine nodded through a bite. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘You can do the dishes,’ Kylian added dryly.

‘Yes, if you’d like.’

Suddenly the foul mood evaporated into thin air and his young friend leaped from his chair to throw an arm around him. The change in mood had not been entirely surprising. Certainly not surprising enough to have him lifting his gaze from his plate.

‘Oh, you’re wonderful!’ Kylian exclaimed, hugging just a little too tightly. ‘I swear, my fingers are permanently pruned, I can’t stand it! I feel like a squid!’

The analogy did not make much sense to Antoine, but he welcomed the praise all the same. He finished his humble meal just as N’Golo brought him a bowl of steaming carrot soup and Antoine thanked him again for his kindness. When they were younger he had felt awkward about the other’s near habitual caretaking but had since gotten used to the behaviour and had accepted it as something that was simply part of his person. It was a good trait for someone working at an inn, anyway, and being helpful seemed to make him happy.

‘I can’t wait for this to be over,’ Kylian went on. ‘I likes parties as much as the next guy, just not when I have to be in charge of them. Not every time, at least.’

‘That’s fair,’ commented Antoine in-between bites. He’d only ever assisted from the side-line and even he thought it was a bit much.

The night went on and while Kylian went to bed early, Antoine and N’Golo sat up for a bit longer, talking about the day to come. The feast was to be magnificent, but as much as he looked forwards to it he couldn’t shake the dread of what would come after. But he spoke none of this and their evening was a pleasant one until finally he returned home to sleep. Then, once alone in what now felt like his much too spacious room, the thoughts were not quite so easily shaken.

 

The next day was one of much excitement. By the time Antoine climbed out of bed, Deschamps was already awake and busying himself with ironing one of his many white shirts. Breakfast was set and still warm when he reached it; freshly made brioche and croissants, soft and hard cheeses, delicious butter, and three kinds of jam, as well as tea, coffee, and juice. A modest breakfast, for a hobbit; or so he had been told by a few travellers that ventured through town from the north. He’d heard them speak of sausages and eggs and different kinds of smoked ham that was consumed up in those parts. Lunch foods, in other words. It was all very strange, but he never made a fuss about it when those kinds of people came around. It wouldn’t be the polite thing to do.

He sat silently by the table as he filled his plate and ate, watching Deschamps work all the while. This was the last day, Antoine knew, before he would leave for Madrid. Then Cul-de-Champ would be his, and for the first time since Didier’s great-great-grandfather had laid the foundation of the house it would not belong to a Deschamps. It felt like a burden on his shoulders, to try and live up to a name that wasn’t even his own – to make himself deserving of the ownership. Didier didn’t think too much of it. He’d said it was just a building like any other, that most buildings had once belonged to someone else, that this was just the way things went. And that might very well be so – but _this one_ had history. It was a building that had housed adventurers and that had lent itself to wizards and dragon hunters and even kings! Now it was to be the home of Antoine, and the thought of it had him feeling very, very, small.

Perhaps he was not the only one feeling the impending change, for neither of them said anything while he ate.

 

Hugo Lloris had been staying at the Blue Dragon Inn over the night and had barely gotten an ounce of sleep for all the ruckus going about. The party was without a doubt to be the biggest one he had ever attended, and he had partied with the elves. After his morning coffee he immediately left the inn to find a quieter spot within the village. Usually it wouldn’t have proven a very difficult task, but this day was different. This day, no matter where he turned, he ran into hobbits making preparations; putting up banderols and balloon, moving tables and chairs and setting up tents with wispy ribbons hung from each corner. It was all a little too much, he thought, as a feast to celebrate one single hobbit. But then, of course, he really _had_ heard the tale of the dragon near a million times, so maybe it was not. What little experience he had with hobbits had given him the impression that they didn’t normally _do_ much. It was to be expected, then, that once one did it was all a pretty big deal.

Lloris wandered about aimlessly for a fair bit of time before he gave up and sat himself down under a moderately large oak tree. The smaller folk working around him were giving him funny looks and he found that he didn’t entirely like the attention. Hobbits were strange creatures, he concluded bitterly. He had been so sure that Deschamps would help him that it hadn’t occurred to him to account for the possibility that he might not. Now he had to find someone else; that someone else most likely being another hobbit.

By the looks he was receiving he didn’t think them a very friendly bunch. His thoughts drifted back to Deschamps and the disappointment of his visit there. But, as he sighed at the memories, one particular detailed stood out to him; one that hadn’t occurred to him at the time, but did now that he knew of Deschamps disposition. And maybe there was hope still, if only he played his cards just right.

 

Antoine left after breakfast to go help Kylian and N’Golo finish the final preparations for the big day (and to possibly steal some carrot cake). This time he was welcomed with open arms for they were, as expected, indeed a little overwhelmed. While he wasn’t prepared to spend any time in the kitchen, he was strong for a hobbit and quick on his feet. He and N’Golo carried kegs and tables and platters and decorative items for at least a couple of hours before they felt accomplished enough to earn a break. The sun was high on the cloudless skies and had showed them no mercy while they worked, so by the time they finally relented both their faces were covered in beads of sweat that were slowly trickling down their brows.

‘I’m going to be sore tomorrow,’ said Antoine as he used his shirt to wipe the worst of it off his face. N’Golo nodded in agreement and they sat down in the shade made by one of the many cream coloured tents.

‘Is he all right? M. Deschamps, I mean,’ asked N’Golo once they’d settled.

‘I don’t know. I think he’s more nervous than he lets on. But I think it’s what’ll make him happy in the end, so I don’t want to question him too much.’ said Antoine. ‘I don’t want to discourage him, give him second thoughts.’

N’Golo nodded again. Being friends with Antoine, he too had been fortunate enough to hear The Dragon Story many times and had seen how M. Deschamps lit up whenever he spoke of his past adventures. Not many hobbits in Bayonne understood how he could feel that way about something as outlandish as travelling and facing danger and opposing odds, but N’Golo thought he grasped at least part of the charm. The sense of comradery at least stuck him as appealing.

‘I think he will like this. Everyone’s working so hard, it’s wonderful to see,’ said N’Golo.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Antoine. ‘It’s going to be big, this one.’

They caught their collective breath for another few minutes, relishing the cool winds that occasionally found their way in-between the tents. They were just about to get back to work when N’Golo caught the tail end of a hushed conversation going on nearby.

‘I just hope he’s not here to cause any trouble. You know how those bigfolk are,’ said the voice of one of the town’s elderhobbits.

‘Last time was a nightmare! How inconsiderate to cause a ruckus now of all times!’ said another.

N’Golo peered around the side of the tent to watch as the two elderhobbits, carrying baskets, moved slowly along a thin gravel path leading away. They’d come from the direction of the south square, where games were meant to be held later on during the evening. He looked towards Antoine to gauge a reaction, but he didn’t seem to have heard the talking. The night before Kylian had mentioned a visitor at the inn who was very tall and clad entirely in yellow, but N’Golo had never gotten the chance to sneak a peek. It would have been his first time seeing one, for even though he worked at an inn bigfolk were very uncommon in these parts. To his knowledge, there hadn’t been one in Bayonne since the time M. Deschamps was whisked away into the night by a wizard and nine dwarves. Perhaps this one was the very same wizard, then, or perhaps even an elf from M. Deschamps past adventures.

‘Have you heard of any visitors?’ he asked absently, again looking towards the elderhobbits slowly disappearing around a bent.

‘Visitors? I’m sure there are many,’ said Antoine and shrugged.

‘Of course, but I mean any… _big ones_ ,’ clarified N’Golo.

For a moment Antoine looked a little taken aback by the question. Then he responded: ‘Oh, yes. I completely forgot, but a man did visit last night.’

So he’d been right! A stranger from the days of dragons! He didn’t mean to feel as excited as he did, but while Antoine often complained about M. Deschamps stories, both he and Kylian enjoyed hearing them immensely. Especially the parts about the elves.

He must have made a face for Antoine laughed and patted him fondly on the shoulder. ‘I could introduce you, if you’d like. If I can remember his name…’

‘Oh, no! That’s all right. I don’t want to bother him, I just think it’s a little exciting,’ explained N’Golo.

‘He seemed nice. I don’t think he’ll be bothered,’ said Antoine.

And so, despite N’Golo’s very feeble objections, it came to be that the two of them decided to extend their brief work pause to go look for the wizard.

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Eyy? Eyyyyy??? Yeah, that's it. First chapter out of the way. I dunno, man, maybe football + LotR is a bit of a niche crossover... I mean, how many of you out there like Football (specifically the French National Team) as well as LotR AND you also like reading fanfics? Like... not many, I don't think.  
>    
>  But I'm having fun so hahahahahahaha 


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